


Cold Spell

by FakeCirilla9



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beleriand, Cold Weather, Dor-lómin, First Age, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Sharing Body Heat, Travel, Ulmo is the captain of this ship, Winter, against the Curse of Mandos and will of the Valar, as in snow fluff lots of snow fluff, gratuitous sea comparisons, inaccurately described hypothermia, literally bringing them together, mentions of Helcaraxë
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 01:58:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20556338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakeCirilla9/pseuds/FakeCirilla9
Summary: Tuor and Voronwë, on their way to the Hidden City





	Cold Spell

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve read of Tuor and his coming to Gondolin. And here is the effect...

They waded through the knee high snow for days now, the snow-flurry obstructed the sight, biting them with its cold teeth, dampening their clothes.

Tuor swayed on his feet and would have collapsed if not for Voronwë who helped him stay upright. The Elf did not only chose the way but had an eye on the mortal, supporting him whenever the other needed it, even though it tired him more than if he only walked. The Noldo was wary himself, the Man was exhausted.

“I can't, Voronwë, I will not do a single step further.” Tuor said, leaning heavily onto his guide.

Voronwë looked around in near despair. There was no hide on the white plain, mountains stayed far behind them. No tree grew here, no rock laid that could provide some shelter.

“Should I carry you?” the Elf proposed.

“It’d be only for us to die together. Me a bit delayed, you earlier by my burden.”

“I can’t lit a fire,” Voronwë said, distressed. “The orcs will see.”

“Once I would bait them myself to kill.”

“That would be folly. You can't even walk, not to mention fight. And I am no coward, but not keen to endanger both our lives either. And to fail the task.”

“I’m afraid it is forfeited already. I feel my death draws near. Just stay with me, please? Till the end…” Tuor’s voice sounded small, like a child’s that he really was.

Voronwë’s heart swelled with compassion.

“You once told me to have hope. Have it yourself now. The death you feel around is not your own but the breath of Enemy that lies on these lands. You only need to rest, I’ll prepare us a lodging.”

Tuor slumped on the ground and watched doubtfully Voronwë’s progress. The cloak he drew tightly to himself didn’t provide much barrier from the frost. Cold seeped through his wet clothes, paralyzing his body and spirit alike.

As if from great distance he witnessed Voronwë digging in the white duvet, shaping snowdrifts to his will.

“I cannot foresee how a housing raised from snow is to provide any shelter from the cold.”

“You would be surprised how warm it can be inside,” answered Voronwë, not interrupting his work. “My people lived in them, crossing the Great Ice. If you lit a fire inside, especially, the interior can even grow hot.”

“The snow would melt.”

“It would. But not into water, not entirely. It’ll turn into ice, solid like stone walls.”

“I thought you didn't cross the ice.”

“Not me myself, but there are tales, and once in childhood I liked to play being Fingolfin’s soldier.”

“Can't imagine you as a child.”

Voronwë laughed and it was a sound like pearls in the bay and snowflakes seemed to be foam bits for a second.

“Come on, it’s ready. Should contain the two of us.”

Tuor crawled inside, Voronwë moved in after him. Having his sword dislodged earlier during work, Voronwë put it now to the side. Tuor followed his example and - after fumbling too long with the belt with fingers stiffened from cold - added his own sword, bow and quiver to the neat pile growing up the slanted wall.

Inside was not comfortable by any measure. Easterlings’ slave quarters were more spacious. (Especially the ones for their dogs.) But once he maneuvered his weapons away it was less poking.

In the darkness Voronwë leaned toward him, touched his face - the only place uncovered by layers of robes.

“Valar, you're cold as death!”

Laying in a daze, from sounds and touches Tuor could make out like Voronwë was shedding his clothes. Then the Elf's hands were at him again, unstrapping the armor of Turgon, the sign from Ulmo of carrying His message.

“What are you doing?” mumbled Tuor, not really protesting. He just wished to rest, to be left alone long enough so he could slide further into the lassitude.

“I'm going to keep you warm, trust me in this.”

Barely conscious of the surroundings, missing passages of time, Tuor found himself naked, manhandled until there was a body pressing to his from behind, arms encircling his chest. His legs were pushed up, bent and supported by likewise set elven limbs.

Voronwë’ breath was at his scruff. It was... nice.

Tuor nestled himself into the embrace.

“Don't go to sleep yet,” whispered Voronwë. “Stay here with me.”

“I'm so tired,” Tuor complained.

“I’m afraid you'd die in your sleep. Go to meet fate of all Men, rather than the one Ulmo set before you. Stay conscious.”

“Tell me a story then.”

Tuor took hold of hands encircling his waist, moved them up to his chest. Voronwë stroked his breast and he hummed in delight.

“What story would you like to hear?”

“Of Gondolin.”

Voronwë sighed somewhat sadly, but then complied in a voice quiet and rhythmic like a poem, like a song and Tuor was drawn into it. He didn't know if he slept or dreamt awake, enchanted by Voronwë’s voice.

He went through seven gates, via narrow mountain clefts. He walked among rows of proud guards until he reached the Hidden City, the pearl of noldorin architecture. Buildings suited their surrounding like they were carved here since the beginning of Arda by no elf, but Valar hand.

“Are you asleep?” Voronwë stopped his tale, interrupted at marble stairs to one of the towers.

“No,” said Tuor. “This is the first time you've told me of the city... Are you fearing I'll die and thus granting my wishes?”

“You will not. Your body is warming up already. And Lord of Seas can hold back Doom’s hand from taking those he’d chosen for his plans. Even now we are sheltered by his frozen waters from hostile eyes.”

“It would all be for naught, if he didn't place you upon my path.”

“And if not for you, I'd be drowned with all my companions.”

“He’s chosen us for each other,” Tuor said drowsily. He felt content in lean, yet strong arms. Like those of his foster father. Like something else he didn't recognize yet-

Until the warmth that started to return to his body intensified in his belly. When Voronwë’s touches brought up shivers unlike these from the cold, his body shuddered in anticipation. He became aware of how close they were.

“What is it?” Of course Voronwë felt the change immediately.

The Noldo stroked a reassuring hand down Tuor’s flank, which only made him gasp.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I'm more than alright.”

Tuor’s hips shifted minutely to adjust the position. The movement brought Voronwë’s attention there. Sharp truly was the eye of an Elf for Tuor heard Voronwë’s own breath falter.

“I'm sorry,” the young Man blurted.

“What for?”

“For- ugh…”

“It is only natural in a body of a male. And a good sign that circulation comes back.”

Voronwë’s hand slid downward.

“This is nothing to be ashamed of,” he said and touched Tuor’s erection.

The contact was light and fleeting like a butterfly wings.

“Voronwë-” breathed out Tuor, not sure what he conveyed in his words: an accusation or a demand.

“I went too far, forgive me.”

Tuor’s heart beat maddeningly like waves crashing the shore during a storm.

He took in a breath, closed eyes though it was pitch black to him, and searched for Voronwë’s palm with his own. He directed it back from where it had hastily retreated.

Long fingers wrapped around his shaft gently, brushed experimentally back and forth. Tuor trembled at the feather light brush at the tip.

Senses sharp like at any other occasion, Voronwë repeated the action. He teased Tuor with not really touching, not grasping firmly, but ghost-stroking him ticklishly almost, until Tuor could think not of the cold, of the orcs, of the mission, but only of his own physical pleasure.

Prolonged caress was turning into a torture.

“Don’t play with me, Voronwë” whined Tuor. “Harder. Touch me for real, touch me, I beg you.”

“Feeble is indeed endurance of the mortal,” Tuor could hear the smile in the Elf’s voice.

But despite the comment, Voronwë indulged him. Skilled were indeed fingers of the Noldor in any work of hand.

Voronwë grabbed his shaft like a hilt of the sword, his grip firm and sure. He stroked him back and forth, movements fluid like swaying of the sea.

Tuor moaned, wriggled his hips to Voronwë’s cupping hand.

“You need to stay silent, my dear. There are ears outside not friendly to free people in these lands.”

Tuor thrusted his own fist into his mouth and bit on his knuckles to stay silent as wave after wave of arousal surged through his veins. Like droplets sprayed by breeze at the coast, his skin broke out beads of salt sweat.

He was rutting against the Noldo’s body like Easterlings’ bitches in heat, yet he didn't care. What only mattered now was his own release.

It came embarrassingly fast.

Desire seized him like a tidal wave and reaching its crest, Tuor’s seed shot out, splashing snow, ice, Voronwë’s hand. He gasped like a drowning man when he felt himself dragged by water to its through. Only when it threw him ashore finally, he became aware of Voronwë kissing him.

He didn't know when he let go of his makeshift gag, but Voronwë’s lips pressed tightly to his own swallowed any sound that may leave his mouth.

Tuor inhaled through his nose and as his head cleared a little, he kissed Voronwë back. The Elf drew back slowly and Tuor laid spent, waiting for the moment strength will come back to his muscles and his body will obey his command again.

When the moment came, he turned fully on his back, then to his other side, until he was face to face with Voronwë. It was still so dark he more felt than saw where the other laid.

Tuor reached with his hand hesitantly. His cheeks grew hot, as only now he wavered, after what they had done, what Voronwë had done to him a moment earlier. 

The Man touched the Elf’s smooth chest, slid his hand, uncertain, down the perfectly shaped muscles. From hard chest to softer abdomen to vulnerable area of the crotch. Voronwë did not stop him, neither did he really encouraged him. But where Tuor expected to find pressing need, Voronwë’s flesh was soft.

“How are you not hard?” Tuor blurted, then bit on his tongue. “I mean-”

Voronwë laughed softly in mirth.

“I have a bit more control over my body urges than mortal Men possess.”

“But…” Tuor sounded uncertain, nearly hurt. “I thought you wanted it.”

“I did. Would I do what I did otherwise?”

“I wanted to give you the same pleasure…”

“You've given me enough.” Voronwë stroked Tuor’s cheek affectionately. “Go to sleep now. Few hours of rest before you. We shall move on before sunrise.”

“But-”

“Tuor,” Voronwë silenced him with fingertip put on his lips. “All is well. Rest easy and get some sleep.”

A bit reluctantly still Tuor yielded to him and snuggled into Voronwë’s breast. Arms wrapped around each other, they laid in a tangled body heap, their foggy breaths mingling together. Voronwë listened as Tuor’s breath deepened, felt as his limbs relaxed and body grew heavier and more languid.

Only when bits of the mortal’s dream started to reach him, he disentangled himself from Tuor’s embrace and wrapped Ulmo’s cloak around his sleeping form.

Grabbing the bow and arrows, Voronwë went out to keep guard of their little camp for the rest of their stay.


End file.
